


Goodnight, Merlin

by Phoenix_Rose



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Fluff attempt, M/M, Mentioned magic reveal, Merthur - Freeform, Post-Episode: s01e13 Le Morte D'Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-17 17:32:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18103175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Rose/pseuds/Phoenix_Rose
Summary: It had been a long time since the Battle of Ealdor - a long time since he’d moved out of the ‘wanting to kill Merlin’ phase of his cataclysmic anger which, really, had only lasted as long as threatening to take his head off with a sword and leave him there, blood mingling with that of Kanen’s men, before he was interrupted by Kanen’s attempt on his life and left forever in the debt of Will.After all of that, they’d finally gone back to normal.Well.  Mostly normal.Almost normal.Normal, except Arthur couldn’t keep his eyes off of Merlin.





	Goodnight, Merlin

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Dearest Mother,_

_Like I promised, here is the prince’s judgement following the “revelations” during the Battle of Ealdor.  (He insists upon the name. He says it makes it sound more heroic, and that if it sounds heroic Uther might forgive him sooner.  I’m not so sure about that, but there’s no convincing him.) Amazingly, he seems to have_ ~~_forgiven_~~ _c_ _ome to peace with me neglecting to mention it,_ _and_ _‘it’ in itself.  I think I may be safe, from him at least.  I still wouldn’t dare mention it to anyone else - even if they didn’t give me up, I firmly believe that Gaius and the prince would conspire to kill me for my foolishness.  Or at least to give me a day in the stocks._

_I hope that the repairs in Ealdor are going well.  I have been told by the Lady Morgana to tell you that you need only ask for any extra food or funds, though she regrets that it may take a while, seeing as how the king has not officially (or unofficially, for that matter) sanctioned any aid, and is still a bit seething.  (Gwen says hi. She hopes you’re all well. She also offers aid, in the form of her coming to help out at the drop of a hat.)_

_Gaius is well, as am I, and I hope you are too.  I have enclosed the regular share of wages - the messenger is trustworthy._ ~~_Arthur_~~ _T_ _he prince said so._

_With love,_

_Merlin_

 

***

 

_Dearest Mother,_

_Though I appreciate both your concern and the offer, I must reluctantly decline your offer of sanctuary during these times of hardship in Camelot.  It would be improper of me to abandon my duties at this time, to say nothing of abandoning my friends. (Can you tell that_ ~~_Arthur_~~ _he prince has been teaching me how to write formally?  He hopes to use me as a scribe, but he says he can’t do that if I still write like a commoner.  I told him that I would rather write like myself than like a pompous cabbage-head, but I don’t think he appreciated my input.)_

 _But really, you don’t have to worry about me.  We might have run out of regular food, but there are always substitutes.  Gaius served up giant insects yesterday (which, for the record, taste_ _nothing_ _like chicken), and a few days ago I managed to capture the rat that has been running around_ ~~ _Arthur’s_~~ ~~_the prince’s_~~ _Prince Arthur’s chambers and put it into a stew.  He didn’t really appreciate the effort, and I can’t say I liked it very much either, so we gave it to the Lady Morgana.  I don’t know whether she enjoyed it or not._

_The palace has had some disagreements in how to deal with the famine, but rest assured that the prince and I have an idea of how to deal with it.  It’ll all come right in the end._

_I hope that the fortunes of Ealdor are better than ours.  (It should be, so long as none of you has been idiotically hunting unicorns.) (That was unfair.  Sorry.)_

_With love,_

_Merlin_

 

***

 

_Dearest Mother,_

_This is only a short note to tell you that the famine in Camelot has passed.  The idea Arthur and I had was right, in the end, though I hadn’t banked on the noble prat trying to sacrifice himself and give me a heart attack.  Still; Anhora, Keeper of Unicorns, is rather nice when he’s not pretending to kill people’s friends. (Don’t worry, the letter is sealed with my special method.  No one can read this.)_

_I think Arthur might have started to forgive me, thank the gods.  I should have trusted you. You did say he’d come around. (He let me clean his armour again yesterday!)  (I’d never had thought I’d be happy about that. Maybe the lack of food got to me.)_

_With love,_

_Merlin_

 

***

 

_Dearest Mother,_

_Gwen’s father was killed last night.  He tried to escape and was caught. The guards cut him down where he stood.  Arthur tried to protest on his behalf, but Uther wouldn’t listen - he hears the word magic and becomes deaf to all logic.  Arthur is guilty and Morgana is furious. Gwen is heartbroken. I don’t know how to help her. Your advice would be most welcome._

_With love,_

_Merlin_

 

***

 

_Dearest Mother,_

_I swear to you, I didn’t know what Nimueh was going to do.  I only wanted to help Arthur. It was supposed to be me, mother.  I’m so, so, sorry. I said goodbye to you, but I don’t know how much you understood, so I’ll say it again now, and you can read it when you’re well again.  (You will be well again. Gaius is a good physician if I can’t lift the spell immediately. We’re going to make you better again, I promise.) You don’t have to worry about me.  The gods will protect me, and one day I’ll see you again. I will miss you._

_Goodbye,_

_Love Merlin_

 

***

 

_Dearest Mother,_

_I’m glad to hear that all is well in Ealdor.  I know you didn’t like to leave whilst you were worried about Nimueh and her power as you left, but I promise you that she will never hurt anyone again.  I just didn’t know how to say it whilst face-to-face with you. Don’t worry about anything - you have Gaius’ lucky rabbit foot to protect you, and all you have to do is send a letter.  I’ll steal Arthur’s horse and come right there - she likes me better than him, anyway. (I give her apples.)_

_With love,_

_Merlin_

 

***

 

Arthur looked up briefly from his table to watch Merlin write a note to his mother.  It was always nice to watch his manservant writing; he leant far too close to the parchment and wrote slowly, the tip of his pink tongue poking out the corner of plump pink lips (newly scarred in the centre with a small pale triangle; he’d bitten it during his fight with Nimueh) as he tried to be neat and avoid smudging the wet ink.  He was getting slightly faster with Arthur teaching him every now and then, but half-remembered lessons from Geoffrey were perhaps not the best method ever devised.

“Are you done yet, Merlin?” he asked as Merlin started to hum quietly.  It sounded like a lullaby, like something his mother might have sung. (Arthur had heard Hunith in Ealdor, singing a similar tune under her breath as she cooked.)  He only did this when he signed his name, which was about the only word he spelt consistently although, under Arthur’s tutelage - which was, whatever Merlin said, necessary if Merlin was to take notes for him, as manservants should - that was improving, too.  Merlin ceased humming and nodded. Arthur smiled, “Right, you can take my report and leave it in the council room whilst you take yours to the messenger.”

Merlin murmured his agreement, cursing under his breath as he dropped black ink from the tip of his quill onto his sleeve.  Arthur rolled his eyes and added, “Fetch my lunch whilst you’re at it, too.”

“Of course, sire,” Merlin said, making full use of his amazing talent of making Arthur’s title drip with sarcasm and disrespect.  “Anything else, sire?”

“A properly respectful manservant would be nice.”

“I’ll fetch George then,” Merlin said, looking almost subservient but having the act betrayed by his wicked smirk that reached from the corner of his mouth up to his bright blue eyes, which sparkled like the sea with the light of mischief.  Arthur shuddered at the thought, shaking his head: though neither of them had been subjected to George’s presence, they’d heard stories of his dullness, his ridiculous nitpicking, and (horrifyingly) his jokes about polishing brass. Even Guinevere’s smile (slowly starting to be as bright as it had once been as she worked through her grief) was reported to become strained in his presence.

 

Arthur watched Merlin as he left to drop off his letter and Arthur’s report (and hopefully not fetch George) before he realised what he was doing and looked swiftly away, silently cursing himself.

It had been a long time since the Battle of Ealdor - a long time since he’d moved out of the ‘wanting to kill Merlin’ phase of his cataclysmic anger which, really, had only lasted as long as threatening to take his head off with a sword and leave him there, blood mingling with that of Kanen’s men, before he was interrupted by Kanen’s attempt on his life and left forever in the debt of Will.  After that, there had just been heavy silence broken only by sudden, heated arguments, and all the playful teasing that characterised their odd relationship and had to be kept up to stop people realising something was wrong was laced with anger.

Arthur had _hated_ it.  He just hadn’t known how to get over it.

But then there was the unicorn’s curse.  Merlin had tried as hard as anyone - harder than anyone, except perhaps possibly Arthur - to try and lift it, and in the maze, he had begged to drink the poison instead of him.  When Arthur woke up Merlin was looking down on him with a look of such relief, face breaking into an earnest grin, that he couldn’t anything but grin back before letting his head drop onto the sand with a relieved, slightly hysterical, puff of laughter.  

(And, of course, when the unicorn trotted through the forest, there were only two things more beautiful: the pure joy on Merlin’s face as he stared, grabbing Arthur’s arm to make him gape at it too, and the knowledge that Merlin wasn’t evil, could _never_ be evil.)

 

The Questing Beast had merely confirmed it.  Merlin had told him what happened eventually, because Arthur had got sick of his bottom lip trembling near-constantly (and of not knowing where the fresh scab Merlin couldn’t leave alone had come from), sat him down on the edge of his bed, knelt down to eye-level, and asked him to please - “ _Please,_ Merlin,” - tell him what was wrong.

Merlin burst into tears almost immediately.  The story had been garbled and parts of it told into Arthur’s shoulder as he hugged Merlin tightly to his chest, trying to make him promise never to do such a thing again.  The thing, of course, being bargaining his life, being betrayed in a way that risked both Hunith and Gaius, offending a dragon, just barely killing a powerful sorceress before she killed him, and briefly holding onto the power of life and death by the tips of his long, thin fingers, just to keep Arthur alive.

Merlin refused to make the promise.  His eyes had been bloodshot, and the pale skin around them rubbed red by his fists, but they’d also been hard and resolute as he declared that it was his destiny to protect Arthur and that he would never renege on this.

(The only thing for it was for Arthur to apologise for… well, _everything_ from Ealdor to that point, and then to make a similar vow that he would always seek to protect Merlin.)

After all of that, they’d finally gone back to normal.

 

Well.  Mostly normal.

Almost normal.

Normal, except Arthur couldn’t keep his eyes off of Merlin.

 

It was stupid and inconvenient and more than a little embarrassing, but Arthur couldn’t keep his gaze from wandering from where it was meant to be to Merlin - _Merlin_!  Of all people!  It was getting to the point that his knights were talking about it, making crude jokes that Sir Leon tried and failed to cover up by clearing his throat.  It was irritating and an insult to both his and Merlin’s respective dignities and he wanted nothing more than to tell them exactly where they could shove their jokes, but unless he could offer proof against it they wouldn’t cease and he couldn’t give them that without outing Merlin as a sorcerer.  (No, not sorcerer; warlock. That was what Merlin called himself.)

Worse than anything was that Arthur couldn’t think of any reason for watching Merlin other than there being some part of his subconscious that was still suspicious of Merlin’s morality.  The only explanation was that he didn’t - couldn’t - completely trust that Merlin wouldn’t go on an evil, anti-Camelot rampage. If it made it better - which he suspected it didn’t - he was ashamed of himself and spent a good portion of his time trying to convince the part of his mind unconvinced that Merlin was trustworthy and loyal.

 

He tried and failed not to sneak glances at his manservant as he ate his lunch.

 

*

 

The day was remarkably uneventful, trundling along with a complete lack of threats, magical or otherwise.  Arthur was almost relaxed as he made his way up to dinner with Morgana and his father. ( _Almost_ , because it had been almost a week since Arthur’s sling had been removed and there had been no attack since then, and with Camelot’s general rate of magical attack that was probably something akin to a miracle.  It had put himself, the knights, and Merlin - though he tried to hide it - more than slightly on edge)

Merlin followed close behind him, having dressed him with minimal efficiency and maximum inane chatter.  Arthur had long ago learned to tune this out into nothing more than a gentle buzz that washed over him like the tide.  He’d also learned to ignore the way Merlin’s touch made him tingle wherever his fingers even grazed his skin. Though he still didn’t know why.  Maybe it was just something that warlocks’ hands did. (Even though he could have sworn they hadn’t always burned.)

 

He bowed his head respectfully when he entered the room (later than the other two, as usual, thanks to Merlin) and offered Guinevere a small smile before taking his seat.  Merlin sank almost gracefully into the shadows, pulling just slightly on his jacket to ensure it sat properly. He was always a better servant around Uther, Arthur noticed, being afraid of him.  Not a _good_ servant, of course, but better.

Unfortunately, being aware of _why_ Merlin was afraid meant that, instead of being glad of Merlin’s sudden almost-competence, Arthur burned with impotent anger and grief that mingled in an unpleasant and confusing pool in the pit of his stomach.

 

As he took his seat, Uther immediately launched into a one-sided conversation about the running of the kingdom.  Or perhaps the dangers of magic. Or perhaps something else… Arthur wasn’t exactly sure. He wasn’t concentrating.  Arthur’s attention was on Merlin, in the shadows, just in his line of sight. It wouldn’t matter - Uther never asked him for a reply.  He was free to watch Merlin laugh quietly at something Gwen said as they stood together, smothering the sound with his open palm but failing to hide the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners with his brilliant grin.  As Uther kept ranting, he saw how Merlin wrinkled his nose adorably and rolled his eyes with exaggerated exasperation, raising them to the ceiling, then bringing them to lie on Guinevere’s face, gently elbowing her in the ribs and smiling as she whacked his arm.

Arthur reached to take another bite of his dinner, his gaze still on Merlin, and knocked his goblet with his elbow.  Wine dribbled down the side and pooled on the tablecloth - he winced and hissed irritably through his teeth. Morgana giggled into her own goblet, raising one delicate eyebrow, and he sneered at her.  Merlin walked over with a cloth and a chuckle, mopping up and leaning close enough to murmur, “And you call me clumsy,” into his ear. Arthur, to his humiliation, felt a shiver travel down his spine. Not an unpleasant shiver, like when he’d been training knights in the rain, more…

He clenched his teeth and held himself rigid.  He didn’t want to think too hard on what it was.  Not with Merlin so close, close enough for Arthur to feel his breath on his cheek as he cleaned up the wine, his chest pressed flush against Arthur’s back.  (God, he hadn’t noticed the shiver, had he? How _embarrassing_.)  He cleared his throat and pushed his chair back as soon as Merlin pulled away, springing up and bowing to a bemused looking Uther.  “Apologies, father; I feel a little unwell.” His voice was slightly hoarse, lending itself to the lie. “I think I may be coming down with something.  I think I’ll retire early tonight.”

Uther waved a hand to excuse him, already moving onto the next topic of the conversation that he thought - or pretended - people were listening to.  Morgana flicked her eyes over Arthur in a slightly concerned once over but then, apparently satisfied with whatever she saw, turned around to better not-listen to Uther.  Merlin flashed a confused look to Guinevere in the shadows - _is he acting strange or is it just me?_ he seemed to ask - and then bowed to the king (awkwardly, of course, because he was terrible at respect, and it wasn’t as if he practised showing any to Arthur) before hurrying out behind him.

 

They walked to his chambers without speaking, although the back of Arthur’s neck tingled with both the weight of Merlin’s gaze and the now-familiar feeling of a diagnostic spell.  (He rolled his eyes as he felt it, though there was no real annoyance in it; Merlin had been overprotective - even more than usual - ever since the Questing Beast. Perhaps it was a _little_ justified, but still.)

When they reached the door, Arthur turned to him.  “Take the evening off, Merlin. I can tend to myself tonight.”

“What?”  Merlin’s voice was flat.  He looked at him like he’d grown a second head.  Or perhaps been enchanted. If it wasn’t for Merlin’s diagnostic spells whenever he sniffed, he’d probably think he was enchanted.

Merlin didn’t leave.  “You’re going to get ready on your own?”

“I am the prince, Merlin,” he said, drawing out his name with just the right amount of exasperation to mask his amusement, to hide the fact Merlin’s stubbornness was more than mildly endearing, and to dispel any idea that Merlin was anything more than an irritation, though the man in question might not fall for it anymore.  “I’m sure I can get dressed without your assistance,” Arthur added. “Enjoy your time off. Just don’t get used to it.”

Merlin nodded slowly, looking suspicious.  He hesitated a moment longer before heading obediently to the physician’s chambers where Gaius was waiting for him.

 

Arthur let out a breath of relief as he went - he needed to think.

 

***

 

Merlin quietly thanked the gods as he walked into the rooms he shared with Gaius to find him there, sat at the table and serenely crushing some strong smelling herb with his mortar and pestle.  Merlin sat next to him on the wooden bench, taking up the labels he’d been writing the last time he’d actually been free to do the duties of his apprenticeship. As he let the ink and quills float over to him, ignoring the sharp look Gaius sent him, he watched the water boiling in the centre of the table.  It was close to boiling over, and he wondered idly whether Gaius would notice, or if he’d have to once again leap in to subvert disaster.

He plucked his writing utensils and out of the air and stared at the spellings in the book.  He wanted to get these right; he knew how important it was that Gaius could find his ingredients quickly, and he also knew that the more words he began spelling consistently, the prouder Arthur looked when he was finished writing the letter dictated to him.  This was good practice.

His voice was distant as he asked, “Is it just me, or has Arthur been… odd, recently.”

“Is he enchanted?”  Gaius was unconcerned, secure in the knowledge that Merlin would be doing far more shouting and pacing if Arthur _was_ enchanted.  “It has been a while.”

Merlin looked up from his labels with a wry smile, “No.”  The smile slipped and he sighed slightly. It’d be less confusing if he was.  “Just… odd.”

Just… jumpy.  Weirdly attentive - Merlin wasn’t sure someone had watched him as often or as closely as Arthur had since the Questing Beast in any other time of his life, and that included his mother when he was learning to use his magic for the first time.  And it wasn’t even watching to check he was doing his work. At least, he didn’t think so. Arthur just kept… looking. Looking at him for no good reason. Not even for a _bad_ reason.  Just looking.

If he didn’t know better, he’d say…

No.

He did know better.  He wouldn’t say it. Wouldn’t think it.

He knew better than to get his hopes up.

 

Gaius finally set aside his herbs and noticed the water, giving a short cry and mock-glaring at Merlin when he failed to properly smother his laugh.  Then his look softened and Merlin turned back to his labels. Gaius’ looks were always intense, even when he didn’t add in The Eyebrow, and Merlin particularly hated his sympathetic looks.

“Well,” Gaius said slowly, “it’s not that long since Arthur had a near-death experience.  He’s likely a bit shaken up.”

Merlin thought a moment, then wrinkled his nose and shook his head.  “No, he’s had plenty of those. Besides, he just beats up his knights when he’s reminded of his own mortality and needs cheering up, and he’s already done that this week.”

Gaius arched his eyebrow and Merlin skillfully ignored him.  Arthur was an open book if you knew how to read him. And it wasn’t exactly a secret; surely Gaius noticed how his bruise salves were used up quicker in the two weeks following Arthur recovering from a near-fatal incident.  Gaius was still looking at him oddly, so Merlin went back to his labels. He misspelt a word and cursed under his breath - Gaius hit him upside the head and did not deign to answer when he yelled, “Ow! What was that for?”

Gaius went back to the prior topic without acknowledging the violence as Merlin took a fresh label.  “Perhaps Arthur is just now realising the scale of your power. You did hold the power of life and death in your hands, bringing balance to the Old Religion.  It’s probably a bit overwhelming.”

Merlin froze.  He stopped writing, lay down his quill, and groaned quietly.  Of course. Of course. It must have the Isle of the Blessed. It had to have been.  Not because of his powers, no - he’d explained them long ago, fairly soon after Ealdor.  No. It had to be because of what he’d done to Nimueh.

When he’d been telling stories to Arthur before, he’d always glossed over any battles, any deaths.  He didn’t like to talk about it, and he didn’t want Arthur to look at him differently. But, when he’d been telling him about Nimueh, he’d been so upset it had _all_ come pouring out.  How he’d dragged the lightning from the sky and struck her deep in the chest; how when the smoke cleared she was nothing more than a scorch mark on the ground, ashes in the air, and the faint smell of burning; how he’d not known it’d save Gaius - it was just revenge for what she’d done.  How he’d felt nothing but happy when she died because the people he cared about were safe. How he’d not even felt a tiny pinprick of remorse until a full day later, and then only because he could tell it upset Gaius, not because he regretted it.

Arthur was probably disgusted in him.

Gaius was looking at him with a healthy dose of pity in his eyes.  Merlin put the quill away. “I think… I think I’m going to go to bed.”

 

*

 

Sleep didn’t come easily to Merlin.  Ever since moving to Camelot, where death and danger surrounded him and, sometimes, came from his own hands, he struggled.  Grief and guilt would tear alternately at his chest and keep his eyes from closing.

Tonight, sleep didn’t come at all.

He lay in his bed, tossing and turning, and then, a while later, gave up.  He sat up and hung his blankets around his shoulders, hanging his feet over the edge of the bed.  As quietly as he could, he kicked the loose floorboard aside. Then, he plucked his magic book from the hole, hissing as he smacked his knuckles on the Sidhe staff, and lay back down.

He started on the very first page and read through familiar words, running his fingers over ink and tracing illustrations.  There was the spell that saved Arthur from the _honourable_ Knight Valiant - and left a vicious dog in his bedroom, which he and Gaius had had a hell of a time dealing with.  That one was the poultice that had saved Gwen’s father, even if he couldn’t save him later on. That one had conjured the wind to destroy the afnac.  This one to kill a Gryphon, another one to take a bug from a king’s ear (and make Gaius call him a genius, which was nice). Spells to heal, to save - and so many of them to kill.  It was amazing to think that before he’d come to Camelot, he’d not even been able to kill the spiders that hid in his boots. (For the record, he still didn’t. His mother had taught him not to.)

He sighed and closed the book.  So many spells and they could do nothing for him now.  It was magic that got him into the mess - he doubted that using more of it would make anything better.  It couldn’t make Arthur trust him again.

 

He hung over the side of his bed again, face close to the floor, book held tightly in his hands, ready to put it back.  He hesitated, hanging there, suspended upside down with his hair brushing the wooden floor and his cheeks starting to flush as blood flowed to his head and made him dizzy.  By the gods, he’d really messed it up this time.

Whoever it was who decided that honesty was the best policy was a filthy liar.

 

What Merlin needed was something to prove he wasn’t a cold-blooded, revenge-driven murderer like so many of the other magic-users Arthur had met.  (What he needed was to have had some discretion when he was talking about Nimueh. What he needed was a time-travelling spell.) He chewed on his lip.  The book weighed down his arms - _oh_ .  Of _course_.

He shoved himself back onto the bed, shaking the dizziness from his head.  What he needed was a spell so amazing and beautiful and… and… _magical_ that Arthur would see that his powers - most people’s powers - weren’t made for murder.  That Merlin wasn’t made for murder.

With the smallest of grins playing at his lips, he started to flip through the hundreds of pages.

 

***

 

Arthur was very aware that he’d messed up.  Ever since the meal when he’d sent Merlin away, Merlin had hardly spent any time with him.  He didn’t spend two minutes longer in Arthur’s presence than he absolutely had to. He practically sprinted back to his chambers when he finished his duties, sometimes murmuring an excuse about Gaius needing him, sometimes not even bothering with that.

Something told him that Merlin had picked up on his lingering gazes and realised what it meant for Arthur’s trust in him - or lack thereof.

 

He reflected on this one morning, almost a full week after the meal.  (The Meal, he’d started to think of it as. An incident. Something to be capitalised.)  He’d woken early, before Merlin came to fetch him, and lay staring at the canopy, wondering whether it would be better to admit to everything and apologies or to act as if nothing was wrong.  That nothing had changed.

The more he thought about it, the more he came to realise that it hadn’t actually started straight after he’d learned about Merlin’s magic.  Not like this. His original anger - his _usual_ anger - meant that he didn’t look at Merlin at all.  He looked just past him, just above him, just to the side of him.

No, this had begun after Merlin explained what he’d done to Nimueh.  In the few quiet moments following his confession, with him perched on the bed and Arthur crouched before him, Arthur had been unable to do anything but look at him, realising for the first time the care and devotion Merlin gave him, though he didn’t come close to deserving it.  He’d done nothing but watch the tears well in those clear blue eyes, occasionally flecked with gold, as Merlin proved beyond doubt that he and Arthur, despite having the outward appearance of master and servant, were more than equal. Able to be friends on even footing. Maybe even…

 

Arthur’s mouth went dry.  He swallowed, felt his throat catch.  Suddenly, looking at his behaviour from a new angle, he wondered if he’d perhaps been… mistaken.  If there’d maybe been more truth to his knights’ jokes than he’d realised. (If, maybe, he’d wished without realising that there had been.)

 

He stood abruptly, feeling suffocated by the covers he tossed aside with a lack of care that Merlin would scold him for when he made the bed.  He started to pace. Clearly, he thought to himself with something close to a chuckle, clearly, he was being ridiculous.

But if he was being ridiculous, why did the idea seem so natural?  Like a piece finally slotting into place. Why, when he thought a little harder, was there a list in his head of things he’d always wanted to do to Merlin?  (How long had that been there? Since Ealdor? Earlier? Since they met?) Why did he want nothing more than, next time Merlin quirked those stupidly pink lips of his into an insolent smirk, to kiss it away, using the little pale triangle as a target?  Why did he want to draw him into a hug as tight as he could manage and thank him again and again for everything he’d done? (Arthur didn’t _do_ hugs.  Merlin wasn’t supposed to be the exception.  Except maybe he was.)

 

Arthur stewed silently, staring out of the window.  He was so engrossed by the new list that he didn’t notice the door creak open until he heard Merlin’s voice quietly saying his name.

“Merlin!”  He took a half-step forward, not entirely sure what he was planning but assuming it would be coming from the previously unknown list, before he noticed the pallour of Merlin’s face.  (Merlin was usually pale, but this was something else.) “Merlin,” he said again, his voice duller now, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

Merlin cleared his throat.  His hand lept to the back of his neck to play nervously with a lock of hair there.  “Your father cornered me on my way here,” he said, not quite meeting Arthur’s eyes. “That’s why I’m late, though it doesn’t seem to matter, really, because you’re already awake, though I notice you aren’t dressed, despite you saying so often that you _can_ dress on your own-”

“Merlin,” Arthur said again, sternly this time, “breath.  Then talk.”

Being a disobedient wretch, as usual, Merlin’s next words came in a breathless rush.  “There’s an execution. This morning. I’m to help you dress and then you have to go. Straight away.”

“A sorcerer?”  Arthur sighed as Merlin nodded miserably.  He placed what was a hopefully comforting hand on his shoulder: “I’m sorry.”

Merlin shrugged, knocking his hand from his shoulder.  “Don’t be. There’s nothing you can do. Nothing I can do.  I just…” he trailed off, shaking his head.

Arthur hesitated a moment and then made a decision.  “I don’t need you to attend me there, Merlin. Just help me dress and then go to Gaius.”

He nodded.  He was uncharacteristically silent the whole time, and Arthur _hated_ it.  Merlin was always standoffish and quiet on execution days - always had been - and so Arthur had always tried to keep him away, even before he’d known about the magic.  He was, after all, from a tiny, _tiny_ village that, Arthur assumed, didn’t see executions very often, and he’d always seemed, well… sensitive.  To Arthur, anyway. Or maybe it was just that he was younger than Arthur, though not by much. Only about a year.  Maybe he was just small. In any case, it had seemed like an act of cruelty to take Merlin to one - like kicking the tiniest, runtiest puppy in the litter - and it seemed even more so now.

Even if, Arthur thought as Merlin left, he longed for a friendly face nearby.

 

*

 

Arthur was not unused to facing executions alone.  Morgana always stayed away, keeping Gwen by her side, watching through a window if she watched at all.  She didn’t often watch. However Arthur, as the heir, was required to stand by Uther’s side, spine straight, head high.  (Uther didn’t count as company or a friendly face. He stayed cold and silent, staring at the prisoner with “righteous” fury.)  (Arthur wasn’t supposed to want company, anyway. He was supposed to be stern, determined to see justice down. He wasn’t supposed to search for Merlin within a sea of sickened and bloodthirsty viewers.)

“Let this serve as a lesson to all,” Uther said.  His voice didn’t waver or falter through the whole familiar script.  “This man is judged guilty of conspiring to use enchantments and magic.  And, pursuant to the laws of Camelot, I, Uther Pendragon, have decreed that such practices are banned on penalty of death.  I pride myself as a fair and just king, but for the crime of sorcery there is but one sentence I can pass.”

The same words every time.  Arthur didn’t even need to listen to know what he was saying.  He watched, almost detached except for the thrill of horror that made him feel sick, as Uther raised his hand.

The thump of the axe and the gasp of the crowd brought him back to himself.  He turned his back. The crowd gasped again, at him this time. He father shouted, but he didn’t hear what he said.  He walked away, towards the castle. His father was calling him back - later, he’d probably be in trouble for ignoring him in public - but he kept walking.  The crowd was almost silent, watching him. They knew; this was a statement. This was a rebellion. (He wondered if Merlin would hear about this, what he’d think.  Whether he’d realise it was for him.)

 

He walked into the castle.  He wandered up to his room and ignored the food rapidly cooling on the table - no.  Merlin hated it when he let the food go to waste. ( _“There are people who need this, Arthur, and you don’t even want it!”_ )  He poked his head out of the door and called for a servant: “Here.  Please make sure this makes its way to somewhere it’s needed.”

He sat at his table.

 

What was he going to do about… about… everything?  About anything? Merlin, obviously, was the most pressing issue.  But the executions, the persecution of magic; Arthur couldn’t just ignore.  Not anymore. Not when Merlin had shown him that it wasn’t always used for evil.

Of course, there wasn’t much he could do about it until he was king.  Apart from turning away like he had today, embarrassing his father, there was nothing he could do.  Uther had been poisoned against magic for too long; no amount of reason or pleading could change his mind about it.  The only option was to start afresh in Arthur’s reign, to try and heal the breach when his father was - though he didn’t like to think about it - gone.  

And, now that he thought rationally about it, it would be madness to try and attempt to court Merlin whilst his father was on the throne.  The punishment for Arthur, if it was discovered, which it would be because gossip spread quickly in Camelot, would be mild. A scolding. Public humiliation tops.  But for Merlin, there could - _would_ \- be lashes.  Or a night in the dungeons.  Banishment, maybe.

This list could wait.

If, of course, Merlin agreed to be courted.

Arthur would ask when he was king.

 

In the meantime, he took up his quill and fiddled with it.  It was true that he wasn’t much of a writer; Merlin tended to laugh at him and rewrite his speeches himself, though the spelling was so atrocious that Arthur tended to copy it out so he could read it.  However, his skills (abysmal as they might be) would suffice for this.

 

***

 

Merlin had got bored _ages_ ago.  Gaius had sent him to his room to prevent him from getting underfoot, and there was only so much magic he could practice before the familiar chill of paranoia set in.  In truth, Merlin wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself on his days off.

So he decided to forget that he had one and go to Arthur’s chambers.

 

He knew that there wouldn’t be any servant in there.  Arthur never had anyone but Merlin assist him in changing for bed.  (Gossip suggested that the prince had been given George only once, on an occasion when Merlin was bedridden, and that it had been enough to put him off taking the risk again.  Merlin had no idea if it was true.) So the plan was to assist Arthur in changing and then show him the magic.

Yes, he’d found the spell.  He’d been foolish, looking for new spells; the perfect one was already in his repertoire.  One that came to him as easily as breathing - one that he used to use on long cold nights at home, and that he’d used on the way back home to Ealdor before the fateful battle.

 

He didn’t bother to wait to be called in after knocking, and Arthur heaved a put-upon sigh.  (Merlin didn’t miss him sweeping a piece of parchment into a conveniently placed pile of unused parchment and books, but decided not to mention it.)  (For now, anyway.)

“How many times, Merlin?” Arthur drawled.  “We wait to be admitted after we knock.”

“Yeah,” Merlin said blithely, going to the wardrobe and digging out one of Arthur’s nightshirts.  “You might have mentioned it once or twice.”

Arthur looked for a moment like he might try to continue the ancient argument but, having opened his mouth, closed it and gave the cause up for lost.  “What are you doing here?” he asked instead, getting up from the table and walking over. “I’m fairly sure I gave you the night off.”

Merlin shrugged.  He couldn’t exactly admit he was bored - he’d never hear the end of it.  “I know you can’t get dressed on your own.”

Arthur made an affronted noise, but, again, gave up the argument before it began.  He didn’t resist as Merlin started to unbuckle ceremonial armour that he hadn’t bothered to remove after the execution.  When it was time for him to take over, behind the dressing screen, Merlin noticed that he was quiet as a mouse.

 

That, naturally, did not affect his well-honed aim.  His shirt landed squarely on Merlin’s head.

 

Arthur being changed was, ordinarily, Merlin’s cue to leave, putting the candle out as he passed.  Instead, he lingered, standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed and fiddling with the sheets in a poor imitation of being busy until Arthur grew impatient and demanded: “Spit it out, Merlin!”

“Can I…”  Merlin swallowed, bashful in a way he’d never felt in front of Arthur.  Perhaps because he’d never wanted to be so open. “Can I show you something?”

Arthur nodded slowly, uncertainly.  He looked nervous. Merlin smiled, hopefully reassuringly, and took him by the slightly oversized sleeve of his nightshirt, leading him to the fireplace.  They sat side by side on the plush rug and Merlin set the logs to burning merrily with a whisper.

 

“I know that what I told you about Nimueh… made you think differently about me.  About my magic.” Arthur started to protest but Merlin shook his head, cutting him off, “You don’t have to lie.  You’ve been acting differently - I’ve seen you watching me. I don’t mind, honestly. I just… want to show you that magic isn’t always for violence.  You’ve only really seen it for violence, haven’t you? Apart from that light orb.”

Arthur nodded mutely.  Merlin smiled, sadly. “That’s a shame.  Magic can be beautiful, Arthur. It just depends on the wielder.  It can create things from nothing. It can heal, save people’s lives.  And,” he chanced a small glance and smile sideways, “it can tell stories.”

“Did you plan that speech, Merlin?”  Arthur asked drily, but there was an edge of something in his voice that suggested the sarcasm was a front.

“Yes.  Now shut up.”

 

Merlin closed his eyes and concentrated on the flames, raising one palm towards it.  He imagined the flames twisting, running into each other. When he opened his eyes again, they were golden, and an image of a snake wrapping itself around a shield was hovering.  Arthur raised an eyebrow.

“What story is this?  Valiant’s?”

“No.  Yours.”  Merlin risked his concentration to look at Arthur.  He looked confused and Merlin smiled. “This was the first time I ever believed that the Great Dragon was right - that you _would_ be the greatest king Camelot had ever seen.  That you could unite Albion, be the Once and Future King.  You believed a servant over a knight. No one else would have done so.”

Arthur’s jaw worked furiously in the way it always did when he was trying to keep a neutral expression.  Merlin deliberately looked away and let the image change, morph into a goblet pouring tainted wine onto the ground beside a small, crumpled flower.  “You defied your father to save a servant’s life.”

“Not just a servant,” Arthur said.  But it was only under his breath and Merlin wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to hear, so he pretended that he didn’t.  

Instead, he shot an orange gryphon down with flickering spears: “You fought for a common man to become a knight.  A unicorn pranced around the scene in pure joy until it was all you could see: “You gave your life for your people and kingdom, even if it didn’t stick.”

Arthur was still silent and Merlin was still looking away.  He gave the unicorn wings, elongated the nose, gave it scales; the Pendragon crest looked out at them like he’d once shown his mother.  It flapped its wings and roared silently as Merlin said, “You risked everything to protect a sorcerer who had lied to you since the day you met him.”  He released the spell, letting the flames die down, lowering his hands and letting his blue-again eyes rest on the embers.

 

***

 

“That…  Merlin, that was…”  Arthur swallowed and fell silent, lacking the words to explain what, exactly, Merlin’s display had been.  Beautiful was an understatement. Wonderful was inadequate. He cleared his throat and stood abruptly, striding over to his table and digging through the pile of papers on his desk.  He grabbed the piece he’d been writing on, the one he’d noticed Merlin noticing, and thrust it into his hands. Then, hesitating only for a moment, he sat back down the rug and let himself watch how the shadows danced over Merlin’s face as he read over the smudged and heavily edited writing that he already knew by heart:

 _I, Arthur Pendragon,_ ~~_Future_ ~~ _King of Camelot, rescind the complete ban on magic.  I have, after careful consideration and_ _~~close quarters~~ _ _experience with sorcery over the years, determined that magic does not,_ _~~as my father believed~~ , _ _corrupt the individuals who learn it, or who are born with it.  Instead, magic should be treated as a sword is,_ ~~_as a weapon or_ ~~ _being utilised as the user sees fit, as their own morals dictate, and therefore policed as the sword is._

“It’s, well, it’s a bit, er, unpolished.  It’s a rough draft. For the future, obviously, and-”  Damn it. He never struggled for words; why was it different with Merlin?  “-well, with your help, I’d like to… Merlin, are you alright.”

 

At some point during the speech, Merlin had dissolved into silent tears, but when Arthur drew attention to it he let out a sob, dropping the parchment onto the rug in order to wipe his eyes with his jacket sleeve.  “Arthur, _sire_ , I-”  He sobbed again, and Arthur wasn’t sure what to do until he found himself with an armful of weeping warlock.  He rubbed circles in the centre of Merlin’s back as he’d seen people in the streets do to children startled by his and the knights’ large horses and Merlin buried his face in the crook of his neck, clutching at his nightshirt with tight fists.

“C’mon, Merlin,” he murmured into his soft hair, “don’t be such a girl.”

Merlin laughed - choked by tears, but still a laugh.  “Don’t be such a prat,” he mumbled into Arthur’s shoulder.  He raised his head and smiled at Arthur. Arthur let his hand drop from his back.  It hovered with the other near Merlin’s waist. Merlin’s hands had just let go of his shirt - now they were pressed, open, on his chest.  He was closer to him than Arthur had registered earlier. Close enough that he could see the creases in Merlin’s slightly watery eyes as he beamed.  Close enough that Merlin hardly had to speak above a whisper as he said, “Thank you, Arthur. I thought we’d have to hide forever.” Close enough that if it wasn’t for the fact it would put Merlin in danger, he’d only have an inch and a half to lean before his lips would brush against Merlin’s.

 

Close enough that _Merlin_ only had to lean in an inch and a half before their lips pressed together.

 

***

 

There was a sense of vague amazement tingling somewhere close to the back of Merlin’s mind.  Partly that he’d actually done it - _was_ doing it - was _kissing Arthur_.  Mostly that Arthur was kissing him back baby-blue eyes widening for a brief moment before fluttering closed.  Merlin followed suit, and his whole world shrunk into the light touch of Arthur’s hands on his waist, gently pulling him closer, the subtle smell of lavender always radiated for a full day and a half after a bath, and how Arthur’s slightly chapped lips yielded to his and curved into a small smile.  He let his hands slip from Arthur’s chest, over his shoulders, hang loosely behind his neck.

 

When Arthur pulled away, Merlin didn’t even open his eyes before leaning back in.  But there was a hand on each shoulder stopping him, and when he looked at Arthur his face was serious.

“Merlin, we can’t.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur.”  Merlin looked away, suddenly mortified by his forwardness.  “I didn’t mean to… If you didn’t want…” He ran a hand through his hair and shuffled back, out of Arthur’s space.  “I shouldn’t have…”

“No, no, it’s not that.”  Arthur chewed on his bottom lip (Merlin tried not to look) and then stood.  He offered Merlin a hand up as he explained, “I wanted… but my father.”

Ah.  Of course.  Merlin nodded in understanding, “He’d be angry at you.”

“It’s not me I’m worried for.”

It was stupid, but Merlin couldn’t help his heart swelling slightly at that.  Clearly, Arthur cared for him in some way. (Maybe the same way Merlin cared for him?)  “I’m good at keeping secrets,” Merlin pointed out, but his heart wasn’t really in it. He knew Arthur wouldn’t give in.  (Not yet, anyway. Maybe if…)

 

“I won’t risk it,” Arthur said sternly.  “I can’t risk you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Merlin said softly.  He hadn’t dropped Arthur’s hand yet, so he gave it a squeeze.  “Maybe one day it’ll be different.”

“I can’t ask you to wait for me.”

Merlin rolled his eyes and smiled.  “You don’t have to.” He darted forward for just a moment, kissed him on the corner of his mouth (a consolation prize) and was back before Arthur reacted.  He slipped into his normal chirpiness, even if it was a little forced. “Now, into bed with you. You’ve got a busy day of beating people up tomorrow, and I’m sure you want all your energy to yell at the knights.”

Arthur hesitated a moment, looking at Merlin with what was definitely regret.  Merlin kept his smile fixed for both their sakes, and they both pretended that they couldn’t tell it was fake, and it was only after Merlin left with a quiet farewell that he could lean against the cold, stone wall beside the door and close his eyes for just a moment, letting it all sink in.

 

*

 

Merlin walked back to his and Gaius’ chambers slowly.  He wasn’t sure if he wanted Gaius to be awake or not. Did he want sympathy or not?  He hadn’t decided when he got there, but Gaius was still sitting at the table, waiting for him by the looks of things, so Merlin allowed himself the dramatics of flouncing over, slamming his head on the table, and groaning.

He imagined that Gaius was raising an eyebrow as he asked, “Everything alright, Merlin?”

“No,” Merlin mournfully told the table.  “No, it’s not alright at all.”

“Did your plan not work then?”

“Plan?”  Merlin lifted his head and blinked owlishly.  “Oh, right. The plan.” He hadn’t realised that Gaius had known about the plan.  Then again, Gaius tended to know his plans even before he did. “No,” he said, “the plan worked perfectly.  Too well, in fact.”

Gaius stayed silent, the wisdom of the ages - and the fact he had spent a good deal of time with Merlin during his many moments of abject despair - reassuring him that Merlin could only last so long before blurting out everything in its entirety.  For one with such a huge secret to hide, he was rather poor at keeping secrets.

Merlin looked over his shoulder at the door, let a little tendril of magic seal it closed and let another ensure that there could be no eavesdroppers.  “He took out a draft for when he becomes king. He’s going to legalise magic!”

Gaius frowned: “And that makes you unhappy?”

“What?  No, no, Gaius, it made me so happy, so happy I could…  I don’t know. Burst? I cried. And then…” He bit on his bottom lip, raising his eyes skyward.  “Goddess above - Gaius, I did a bad thing.”

Gaius frowned at him.  “Merlin. _What. did. you. do?_ ”

Merlin swallowed, “I kissed him.”

“ _Merlin_ ,” Gaius thundered, and Merlin almost recoiled, because he’d never heard him so angry before, “of all the _stupid_ things-”

“No, no,” Merlin said, hurriedly cutting him off.  “No, he kissed me back! So it was stupid but not as stupid as it could have been and if the opportunity arose it’s probably not so stupid that I wouldn’t do it again and-” he noticed Gaius’ look “-that isn’t what I meant to say.  It doesn’t matter anyway; he got worried about what Uther would do and he’s a noble prat so he stopped, and said we couldn’t do it again. Until he’s king. So I _said_ I’d wait, and I will, but I don’t really want to, so I need advice.  And as… _awful_ as it is for both of us for me to talk to you about it,  I can’t really ask anyone else.”

“I see.”  Gaius looked at Merlin, exasperated.  “What do you want of me, then? Do you want to tell me your plan?”

“Hm?”

“Well,” he said, rolling his eyes, “you rarely perform one foolish act without a follow-up.”

Merlin scowled.  “You’re no help. I’m going to bed,” he decided.  “That’s what I’m planning now.”

 

*

 

When the sun rose the next morning, Merlin was awake.  He was quite proud of himself, actually. He’d never been on time once in his whole life, but he was going to be today.

Despite knowing this, he was a little offended by Gaius’ unmasked look of surprise.  “Where are you going?” he asked incredulously, watching Merlin tug on his jacket and boots over his nightshirt and yesterday's trousers.

“The forest,” Merlin said distractedly.

“And you’re not going to dress?”

Merlin started for the door, “No.  Don’t want to get muddy, do I?”

Gaius gave him a look.  A look that said, _well, that’s never happened before_.  “Should I inform the prince that you’ll be late?” he asked as Merlin left.

He poked his head back through the door, “No, thanks.  I’ll be on time.”

 

*

 

Merlin _was_ on time.  Well. He was “on time”.  Something he’d learned over the time he’d been with Arthur was that he actually preferred to be woken late, even if he complained in order to keep up appearances.  He got _very_ grumpy when woken at the same time Uther and Morgana were woken and, honestly, Merlin did _not_ want to deal with that.

So, what he _actually_ was, was the preferred half hour late, but with face washed and his hair slightly neater than usual, with breakfast both plentiful and warm, and flowers fresh from the forest in a conjured vase carefully balanced on a tray.  He placed breakfast quietly on the table and jogged to the curtains, throwing them open with a cheery, “Rise and shine, sire!”

 

Arthur groaned irritably and pulled the cover over his head.  Merlin turned away from the curtains and put his hands on his hips.  Was Arthur _really_ going to be difficult?  Then again… it _had_ been a while and, after yesterday, he probably wanted to inject some normality into their lives.  Or maybe he just felt like being a cabbage-head. “Come on. Busy day today!”

The lump formerly known as the Prince of Camelot shifted a little before rolling over and poking his head out to grimace at Merlin.  “How are you cheerful?”

“I’ve been awake for ages,” he chirped.  “Got your breakfast. Hurry up and eat it before it gets cold.”

Arthur rolled his eyes: “It’s been ages since I’ve had cold food.  Excluding when you’re angry at me. Same with baths. I know you heat it up for me.”

“Well,” Merlin said with mock severity, refusing to admit such a thing, “if you don’t get up soon it _will_ be cold.”  Arthur made no move and Merlin sighed, as loudly as he could.  “Don’t make me drag you.”

“You wouldn’t,” Arthur said confidently.  “You can’t.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow.  That definitely sounded like a challenge to him.

 

With a smirk, he advanced on Arthur.  He pulled the covers back - Arthur didn’t resist, clearly think he was sade - and hooked his arms under Arthur’s and pulled as he could.  Arthur finally sparked to life, clinging to the bedpost, “Nope.”

Merlin tried for a few moments longer before giving on that approach.  He dropped him and then kicked off his boots. He hurried to the other side of the bed and hopped up.

“What on earth are you doing?” Arthur asked, confusion making him let go of the post in order to flip over and look directly at Merlin.

“Getting you out of bed,” Merlin said.  Although, feeling for the first time how comfy it was, he completely understood why he didn’t want to leave.  Still, that wasn’t the point. It was now a point of principle now. With both hands (and maybe a touch of magic) he shoved as hard as he could.

Arthur fell on the floor with a thump and “princely” noise of surprise.

Merlin hung his head over the side of the bed and grinned sweetly at the prince glaring up from the floor.  “Come on,” he said. “Breakfast!”

 

***

 

Alright.  Maybe Arthur had underestimated Merlin.  In his defence, however, he hadn’t exactly expected him to use magic.  Which, in retrospect, was a mistake.

Still, he was awake now (even though he was sat on the floor tangled in his cover) so he might as well eat.  He knew it wouldn’t be cold. He walked over to the table but froze when he saw the tray. Specifically, when he saw the vase of the dainty purple and blue flowers that grew at the edge of the forest and a few roses that Arthur knew Merlin must have magicked - they didn’t grow near the forest.

“Merlin,” he said, trying to sound offhand when, in reality, his heart had clenched rather painfully.  “In case it has escaped your notice, I am not a girl. I do not require…” he grimaced at the thought, “ _wooing_ .  Especially when, as we’ve already established, _nothing can happen between us_.”

“Who says I’m wooing you?” Merlin said, equally offhand as he piled Arthur’s blankets back on the bed and started to straighten them out.  “They might be… friendship flowers.”

“Friendship flowers,” Arthur deadpanned.  He had a surprising amount of tolerance for Merlin’s terrible lying, but _really_.  Was that the best he could do?  “No one gives friendship flowers, Merlin.”

“Gwen does,” Merlin said stubbornly.  Arthur sighed. He placed the flowers on his table.  They were rather pretty, in a girlish kind of way. Maybe he’d give them to Morgana to liven up her chambers - she complained constantly about how grey it was.  Or…

He gave them another surreptitious once over.  They were arranged terribly and cut at odd lengths, and in short so _obviously_ from someone as inept as Merlin that…

Well.  His chambers were a little bare, too.

 

***

 

After eating (and forcing Merlin to eat, too, because he was apparently “far too thin”) and being helped into his armour, Arthur went off to train the knights.  Which meant that Merlin had some time alone to work out his next move.

It didn’t take long.  After all, what did knights love more than sharp pointy things that could damage things?

Of course, Merlin had _no_ idea at all what was valued in sharp pointy things.  Fortunately, he knew someone who did.

 

Gwen was always free at lunchtime and, when it was sunny, she always sat out on the steps in front of the castle, because Morgana thought it was important that she had some time off each day, and because the steps got the most sunshine.  Merlin felt a little guilty for accosting her, but he reminded himself that Morgana’s lunches - and therefore Gwen’s - lasted a little longer than most, because Morgana often took it with the king.

“Gwen,” he said, sitting next to her and using a voice designed to elicit maximum pity without causing worry (which he had perfected), “I need your help, please.”

“Of course, Merlin,” Gwen smiled.  She was a darling and, somehow, Merlin always forgot about that. He grinned and wrapped an arm around her as she asked, “What do you need?” and leant into his side.

“A sharp pointy thing,” he said.  She nodded thoughtfully, looking like she was trying not to laugh.  “Its a gift,” he clarified, just in case she thought he’d run mad and decided to get on for himself.  “But,” he lifted his coin purse out of his jacket and gave it a shake, so she could hear the desolate rattle, “I’ve only got this, though, so nothing…”

“Extravagant?” she suggested.  Merlin smiled sheepishly and nodded.

“Not a sword then,” she said, slipping out of Merlin’s one-armed hug and into business mode.  She stood and brushed the creases and out of her skirt. Merlin followed, picking up her empty lunch basket and waving her off when she offered to carry it - “You’re doing me a massive favour, Gwen; I can carry a basket for you.”  They set off towards her blacksmiths, chatting happily as they went.

 

“So,” Gwen said, smiling wryly to herself, “cheap, sharp, pointy thing.”

Merlin shrugged: “Ealdor doesn’t specialise in weapons.  It’s a farming village.”

Gwen hummed.  “Everyone else seemed to cope alright when we brought them some.”

“Alright, alright,” Merlin pouted, “ _I_ don’t specialise in weapons.  There’s a reason Arthur gave up using me as a training dummy, and it isn’t because he wanted to be nice.”

Gwen giggled a little, still slightly shy whenever Merlin insulted royalty (although she _was_ more or less used to it, now), and then started to search her shelves.  Merlin rocked on his heels and then leaned lightly against a wooden table.  It took a little more than two minutes for her to give a little yell of triumph and pull out a small dagger.  She climbed down from her footstool and handed it to Merlin. “What do you think?”

He looked it over.  “I know nothing,” he reminded her with a laugh.  “But it looks great.”

She nodded with a sad smile, “I should think so.  It’s one of the last my father made. The balance is perfect.”

Merlin looked up to her, stricken: “Gwen, you don’t have to-  I can’t take this.”

She tsked, shaking her head.  “Don’t be silly, Merlin. It was made to be sold.  And I’m glad it’s going to the prince; my father would have liked that.”

“How did you…?” he trailed off and shook his head.  “Nevermind.” He wanted to think that Gwen was what he’d claimed to be so long ago - a psychic - but more likely he was just transparent.

“Don’t worry,” she said, taking what was probably only half the value of the dagger and refusing to take any more, “I won’t tell anyone.”

Merlin put the dagger on the table and wrapped her in a hug, “Thank you, Gwen.  For the dagger and… you know.” He pulled away and kissed her cheek before hurrying off, waving as he went.

 

*

 

Holed up in his room, Merlin inspected the dagger.  Knowing, as he had mentioned, absolutely _nothing_ about daggers and other pointy things, he had to take Gwen’s word on the balance.  That didn’t matter though; he trusted her implicitly. He did know, however, that it was perhaps a little plainer than the prince was used to.  (That wasn’t an insult to Gwen. That was an insult to Merlin’s purse.) He gave it a critical once over and then murmured spells under his breath: he engraved a small dragon on the handle and ignored how similar to Kilgharrah he’d accidentally made it; he placed some red gems that he didn’t know the name of in the hilt; he sharpened and shined it to perfection.  Then there was a spell for Arthur’s convenience, one that kept it on target for whatever he aimed for. And then, finally, one for Merlin’s peace of mind: a mild protective charm that would keep low powered enchantments from affecting him for as long as it hung from his belt.

He inspected it once more and smiled to himself.  It was pretty regal looking, now. Suitable for a prince.

He glanced at the window and left at a run - Arthur was already halfway back to the castle.

 

*

 

When Arthur came through the door, Merlin was just finishing up heating his bath.  (Thank the gods for magic.) Arthur seemed more than a little surprised that it was ready without him having to ask, but Merlin ignored that.  “I’ve got a present for you,” he said.

“Oh?”  Arthur frowned, almost suspiciously, “Why?”

Merlin shrugged and pulled out a dagger.  “Tom - Gwen’s father - made it before… before, so the balance is perfect.  Or at least, Gwen says so. You know I can’t tell. I just added some finishing touches here and there.  And it won’t ever miss.”

He tried to sound offhand, giving him the dagger and taking up Arthur’s sword - Caliburn was its name, apparently - and started to polish and sharpen it, but he kept a careful watch on Arthur’s face.

 

Arthur’s face was something close to a picture; a tapestry telling a story.  It started with a deepening of the suspicion, and then a surprise, and then the face he pulled whenever he wasn’t quite sure what he was meant to be feeling, and then, finally, as he ran a hand over the dragon, a small upward tilt of the lips - almost a smile - that meant he was trying to pretend he wasn’t happy.

“You like it?” Merlin asked, giving Caliburn a final once over.

“It’s…”  Arthur looked like he was trying to think of an insult but then gave up.  “It’s very nice, Merlin. Thank you.” He placed it carefully on the table.

Merlin grinned at him like he’d been given a fantastic compliment - which, considering Arthur’s general skills with compliments, he basically had been - and walked over.  “Lift your arms up then.”

 

***

 

Arthur didn’t lift his arms.  He looked seriously at Merlin.  “Look,” he said sternly, “I know you think… _courting_ me is going to make a difference, but it _isn’t_.”

Merlin frowned, wrinkling his nose.  “But you’re enjoying it. Look, you kept the flowers!”

He looked over and cursed inwardly; he should have hidden them.  “That isn’t the point, Merlin.”

“What is the point, then?”

“The point is, Merlin, that we can’t…  We _can’t_.”

“But we _already_ kissed, Arthur,” he pointed out.  “We already _did_.”

Arthur scowled.  “Yes, we did, but… and…  Merlin, would you just _stop_.”

 

Merlin blinked owlishly, looked crushed.  Arthur groaned, guilty, and ran a hand through his hair.  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It’s just… It hurts, Merlin.”

“What?”  Merlin frowned at him.  “I… what?”

“Knowing that nothing can ever happen, knowing _why_ it can never happen…  To admit to feeling… what I feel… hurts,” he explained.  His voice creaked past the lump in his throat. He swallowed.  “I’ve been trying to think about it, about how I care about you more than anyone, about how I don’t know what I’d do if any harm ever came to you, but… it’s like trying not to think about a knife in my chest.”  He laughed without humour and started to pace; Merlin’s eyes burned into the back of his skull. “How could I not think about you? You’re constantly by my side. Every day you’re helping me in and out of my armour, my clothes.  And now, with the presents?” He sighed again - he felt like was doing that a lot lately - and looked back at Merlin. He looked back at him seriously.

“Arthur.  If you were like me - if you were a farmer’s son, without duty, without a crown, if you were just _you_ \- what would you do?  Because I want you to do that-” he saw Arthur’s sceptical face “- _please_ , _Arthur_ , just do that, and then…  If you still want me to ignore… everything, I will.  For as long as you want. Forever, if you want. I’ll stop courting you and it’ll just be like it used to be.  But…” Merlin looked down and cleared his throat, “I’ll admit that, whilst I will wait for you, if that’s what you ask, I’d rather not have to.”

Arthur stood frozen for a moment and then shifted his position, meaning to walk away, but Merlin wanted him to do what he _really_ wanted - and who else wanted that for him? - and what he _really_ wanted was… well, Merlin.

 

He took a few steps forward until he was well into Merlin’s personal space before he stopped, hesitated.  He brushed a few strands of dark hair away from his eyes so he could look into them properly, take in the blue and the brief flashes of gold that you could only see when you watched for them.  He saw that Merlin was looking at his lips (unconsciously, he thought) and smiled. “May I?”

Merlin nodded, enthusiastic even as he rolled his eyes (“Wasn’t I just telling you to?”).

Arthur pressed their lips together, hesitant at first, then more confident.  He felt Merlin’s breath as he sighed happily and wound his arms around him, pulling him into a hug, still kissing him.  (Merlin liked hugs. He knew this.) He pulled away for a moment and whispered, “I’m sorry, Merlin,” before he leaned straight back it.

Merlin stopped him, both hands on his shoulders.  “What for?” he asked breathlessly, less than an inch away and giggling.  Arthur looked at how his cheeks dimpled and ran a thumb over them, laughing as Merlin swatted at him.

“Not doing this quick enough?” he finally answered, shrugging.

“Apology accepted.”  Merlin kissed the corner of Arthur’s mouth: “Now, get on with it.”

Arthur poked his side: “Was that an order, Merlin?  Are we forgetting who’s in charge here?”

“Not at all, sire.”  Merlin smirked at him, the insolent one that Arthur remembered being mentioned explicitly on his list, as he added again, “Now, get on with it.”

 

***

 

It was a long time before they finished.  Merlin had ended up being lifted onto the desk - he suspected that Arthur wanted him sat down so that _he_ was taller for a change.  He tapped Arthur’s hand away when he offered it to get him down, “I’m not a lady, Arthur, whatever you say.”  Arthur just laughed at him and helped him down anyway. He didn’t drop his hand.

Merlin looked out the window.  It was late. Gaius was probably in bed.  He _hoped_ he was in bed because it was certain that if he went back whilst he was awake, he’d notice the redness of his lips.  “I should go soon,” he pointed out quietly, regretfully, to himself and Arthur. “If Gaius wakes he’ll wonder where I am.”  (Would he? Or would he make assumptions?) He made no attempt to move away and looked down at the stone floor. “You won’t change your mind again when I leave, will you?”

“No,” Arthur promised.  “But… if you wanted… you could stay.  Make sure of it.”

 

Merlin looked up fast enough that his neck cracked and Arthur, seeming to realise suddenly what he’d said, blushed Pendragon red.  “I didn’t mean-” he sputtered. “Not like that - I just - to sleep. To actually sleep.”

“Oh,” Merlin said.  “That’s… good.” It was good.  Neither of them was ready for that, he knew, but that didn’t stop the vague feeling of disappointment.  But, if he was honest, the idea of waking up to living, breathing, physical proof that Arthur cared for him in that way - that it wasn’t just another dream of something he couldn’t have - was… enough.  Perfect, really. “Alright then,” he said, smiling, trying to sound like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Good,” Arthur said, beaming like he was trying to hide it.  “I’ll, ah - a nightshirt. You need a nightshirt.” Within a minute, Merlin was putting on Arthur’s spare, and two minutes after that, Arthur was shoving him across because “I always sleep on the left, _Mer_ lin.”

 

Merlin rolled his eyes and smiled a little, rolling over and pressing into Arthur’s side.  “Goodnight, Arthur.”

He fancied that he could hear the smile in Arthur’s voice as he said back, “Goodnight, Merlin.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!!
> 
> Also, edited 14/03/19: adding in the crossouts that didn't get carried over when I posted.


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